


while you are pretty through the night

by paperclipbitch



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Hair Pulling, Pegging, Porn, fandral is just a really whiny bottom and i have violent feelings about this, i can stop tagging any time i like, i just love sif so much, i totally want to write more in this verse, look fandral is asking for it, porn and worldbuilding, ugh jenn why do you not learn, vague d/s dynamics if you squint, why am i shipping this so hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:50:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Normal AU.</i> Fandral certainly isn’t the only man to crawl into Sif’s bed on bound hands and bruised knees, but he’s <i>Fandral</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	while you are pretty through the night

**Author's Note:**

> > [Title from _Slow Motion_ by Phox.] It was really helpful the way my brain developed a Sif/Fandral dynamic and then decided to OTP them, gosh. That’s _so fucking helpful_. So when I have some time on my hands I’d really like to make this into some kind of series. Mostly MCU because, like, you know in the comics when Sif and Thor are shagging? That’s awesome. That should happen more. Oh, also, when I write AUs I like to assume that all the Asgardians are English/British, so that’s why there’s British words for everything, it’s an _artistic choice_ , not just me being lazy.

At college, Fandral was the ultimate icebreaker. You could meet a complete stranger at a party, swap names, bring up Fandral, and discover that he’d not only slept with them, their roommate and their ex, but also most of their study group, their TA, and the postgrad who kicked them out of the library that time for being too loud during revision. He’s like the degrees of Kevin Bacon game, except with more shagging in it.

Now that college is behind them, the Fandral game is slightly different. It’s still fundamentally the same, only now Sif gets to figure out whether he’s slept with the girl across the hall, the guy who came to fix the building’s cable that time, or frankly _anyone_ who works in the bodega on the corner. Or possibly all of them, possibly simultaneously; she’s been to those kinds of parties in the past. The best part of all this, of course, is that Fandral doesn’t even _live_ in this area, doesn’t even visit it that often. 

When he _does_ turn up at Sif’s apartment, it’s almost always like it is now: Fandral unrepentant on her fire escape – when she has a perfectly good actual door – hair windblown, smile charming and pathetic and apprehensive all in the same lilt. Damn it all, but it’s a good look; Sif’s never denied that, there’d be no point.

“Failed date?” she asks, opening the window despite the temptation to leave him out there as a lost puppy, returning to her couch to hit record on the _Project Runway_ marathon she’ll swear blind she isn’t watching. “There’s booze in the fridge if you want it.”

“I don’t,” Fandral replies, devil-may-care shrug worn thin. He carries himself differently in Sif’s space because of this thing that isn’t a thing between them, like the childhood games where Sif could grind his face into the dirt no matter how many times _just a girl_ was spat at her by the boys she played with. She always liked that moment, down on her grazed knees, a fistful of Fandral’s blonde curls while he spat blood and any number of black eyes were worth that victory. She’s pretty sure that’s how they kissed for the first time, actually, teenagers who never quite grew out of the slip-shove rivalry of kids, split lips and broken fingernails. It was Thor who wouldn’t look at her, but Thor’s always been untouchable, Fandral his hilarious opposite, and Sif grew out of some things and not others.

She’s over wanting things she can’t have, now. It took a while, but she made it, and now there’s this life afterwards: a job, an apartment, endless Skype calls with her brother, a handful of people who are happy to have sex without any expectations, and her friends that she always meant to ditch as soon as she was old enough and somehow never did. Well, maybe she wanted to keep Volstagg and Hogun, who are charming and smart and have seen through all of her faults and still love her enough to buy her drinks when they go out, but Fandral and Thor and Loki were definitely supposed to be exorcised and they aren’t.

Fandral kicks his boots off by the window, shrugs out of his grossly expensive and stylish coat to lay it over a chair, and comes to join her on the couch. Fandral doesn’t ask, never asks, but Sif wouldn’t let him in if she wasn’t willing and they laid that ground rule within weeks of her moving in here. Fandral doesn’t call ahead, and Sif doesn’t open the window if she doesn’t want to. It’s probably why this works, or at least why it hasn’t crashed and burned yet.

Sif watches Fandral as he climbs into her lap, hands braced to the back of the couch, thighs to thighs, his knees bracketing her hips. Whether a kid frantically trying to shatter her nose, or a grown man looking for something he refuses to name, Fandral has never treated Sif as anything breakable. He settles his weight against her and Sif reaches up to knot fingers in the back of his hair, damp and curling from the shower she knows he took because he doesn’t smell like the cologne he normally soaks himself in; Sif hates it, doesn’t want to touch anyone who trails chemicals wherever they walk. And it’s a bitch to get the smell out of the sheets. 

“Safeword?” she asks quietly.

“Rainbow,” Fandral replies, like he does every time, smirk a dare and a tease and something altogether less confrontational.

“Still a stupid safeword,” Sif mumbles, pulls his mouth down to meet hers. The kiss is familiar although not gentle: she licks into his mouth, cupping his head in her hands to keep him in place. Fandral fights her for a moment, tongue tangling with hers, but Sif nips his lower lip sharply to remind him just what he’s here for and he acquiesces with a soft sound that Sif swallows whole. 

Anyone could do this with Fandral, really, turn his sexual greed around on him and take instead of give, but he doesn’t want them to: Sif still isn’t sure if she should be flattered or running, but the noises Fandral makes into her mouth as she kisses him breathless are pure and perfect. She can exacerbate them by pulling his hair, still carded between her fingers, by biting at his lips and digging nails into the join between neck and shoulder, keeping him reminded that he’s here because she’s letting him be, nothing more. Sif likes sex like this, and Fandral certainly isn’t the only man to crawl into her bed on bound hands and bruised knees, but he’s _Fandral_ , the boy who taunted her for years but broke the left arm of the first boy to break Sif’s heart, who copied her homework and helped raid her parents’ wine cellar and turned up at her graduation dressed to kill with a smile to match. He’s a part of her life in a way that the people Sif fucks aren’t, has _always_ been, and there’s a complete and utter knowledge of one another here that would be uncomfortable if they ever talked about it. It’s probably part of the reason they never do.

Sif slides her hands down the shifting expanse of Fandral’s back, warm through the soft cotton of his shirt, cups his arse and pulls him closer, his cock hard against her stomach, his breathing hitching against her lips. Fandral’s arse is definitely one of his better features, firm and grabbable and, at least where Sif is concerned, constantly available. Sif starts kneading, just a little harder than is comfortable, flicking her tongue into Fandral’s mouth in tandem until he pulls away, burying his face in her throat, wet lips panting her name in between slack half-kisses. She tips her head back, ignoring the beard burn she’ll have tomorrow, letting him suck at her pulse, hips shifting for friction, then pushing back into her hands. 

“Sif,” Fandral murmurs into her ear, soft and pleading, “ _Sif_ , come on, Sif, _Sif_.”

“Remember when you used to come here after having sex with someone else?” Sif muses, swatting Fandral’s arse before she pushes him off her lap. “And you were less whiny and needy and generally less terrible?”

“I absolutely do not,” Fandral replies, his hair falling into his eyes, grin white and cocksure. He stays sprawled on the floor where Sif deposited him, knees open, though he holds out a hand. “Going to fuck me here?”

“I might next time,” Sif replies, “if you’re good.”

She takes his hand to pull him to his feet, in no mood for carpet burn today, and leads him to her bedroom.

Sif’s a fully-grown woman with a happy relationship with her body and pleasuring it, so she keeps her sex toys in a box in her room discreet enough to stop her friends snooping through it, but big enough for everything to be neatly organised. At college, her organisation was basically having one strap-on for girls, one strap-on for boys, and one strap-on for Fandral, which was glittery. The glitter one was a joke gift from an ex, and she only used it the first time to irritate Fandral, but the blush that skidded over his cheeks and the anger in his tight mouth meant she actually used it for the rest of the year. 

Now, everything’s organised by size, shape and whether or not it requires batteries, with the riding crop tossed in down the side because Sif has nowhere else to keep it.

“Knock yourself out,” she tells Fandral, pushing him toward the box while she pulls her shirt over her head. Undressing is for the girls Fandral picks up in bars, butterfly kisses to the gusset of their underwear; Sif prefers to get on with this herself. She kicks off her jeans, grabbing a hair tie from the nightstand, and watches Fandral sorting through the box. She can’t help from dropping a hand between her legs, to where her knickers are already slick from making out on the couch, pressing a momentary thumb to shift the ache in her clit. 

More girls should get the boys who pulled their pigtails at school to select the fake cock they want them to shove up their arse. It’s really, _really_ satisfying.

She sits down on the edge of the bed, legs spread, and clears her throat. Fandral’s shoulders stiffen and he hastily closes the lid of the box, coming over with his hands full of lube, condoms, the harness. He puts them down on the mattress next to Sif and then sinks fluidly to his knees between her thighs, eyes meeting hers, cock clearly tented through his trousers. 

“Good boy,” Sif says, light, smirking. That’s not how they’ve ever played this, not exactly, and Fandral grins as he kneels up, hands falling to her thighs, and Sif’s fingers catch in his hair as she kisses him, slow and rough. Loki’s the one who turns up for dinner with handcuff bruises, who gets text messages in the middle of movie night that say things like _you need to come over and spank me raw_ ; that’s not Sif’s scene, though she’ll get out the riding crop for anyone who looks like they can take it, isn’t opposed to a little bondage, a little denial, a little begging. Particularly not when it comes to Fandral, who laughs when she tells him that he’s a good boy, but who can’t hide the vicious twitch of his cock either.

It’s a good feeling.

She pulls out of the kiss sooner than Fandral expects, his lips puffy and wet, his eyes startling open. 

“Well,” she says, “you may as well take your clothes off.”

While Fandral does so, stripping off the expensive things he seems to own only so he can leave them crumpled on people’s bedroom floors, Sif investigates what he’s brought her. Her harness is custom-made, a Christmas present to herself a couple of years ago with a slice of her trust fund, delicate straps of black leather and strong but slender buckles, comfortable enough to wear for hours should she choose to. The dildo itself isn’t her biggest, but it’s nearly there; certainly a lot bigger than the purple glitter one they started out with, even if she misses the flush in Fandral’s cheeks every time he looked at it. He’s no longer embarrassed about what he wants, and while that’s a good development in the scheme of things, it has taken a little something out of the experience, the way he couldn’t look her in the eye while riding her sparkly cock, fist crammed up against his mouth to try and keep any noise from escaping and alerting her roommates.

Sif could have told him that she used the communal dishwasher to get everything clean and disinfected the next morning, and her roommates put two and two together pretty quick and regarded him from then on with calmly knowing eyes, but then he might’ve stopped coming over altogether, and that would’ve ruined the exercise.

Fandral wants to help her into the harness, but Sif smacks his hands away a little harder than necessary and directs him onto her bed, tightening buckles and feeding the straps between her legs. She likes doing this herself, no matter who she’s with: it helps make the toy an extension of herself, not just a piece of rubber crammed against her cunt. Fandral watching her with greedy eyes doesn’t hurt either, if she’s honest. Sif tightens the strap around her left thigh, then her right, listening to Fandral breathing harder than he’d probably like, her boy who always wants to be the calm one, the collected one, the one with the sexy grin not the open, pleading mouth. Of course, if that was _all_ he wanted then he wouldn’t be _here_. 

Sif crawls over Fandral, enjoying the momentary awe in his eyes that he can’t hide and doesn’t try to, his hands coming up to curl around the backs of her thighs, reverent fingers catching on the harness straps as he pulls her closer. His skin is warm, dusted with golden hairs, far more familiar to her than Sif ever intended to let it be, and he moans when she dips her head to lick a trail up his neck. Fandral’s hands are spread over her arse cheeks, pulling her against him, her cock batting against his in a way that sends an eloquent shudder through him. He kisses her messily, none of that finesse he’s so smug about, moustache rough against her mouth and tongue greedy against hers. All dashing grace and control until he isn’t.

His hands sweep up her back, and Sif pulls away when Fandral tries to undo the clasp of her bra. 

“Later,” she chides quietly, bracing her knees in the mattress to sit back on his thighs. “Now what the hell have you done with the lube?”

“That was your responsibility,” Fandral huffs, and Sif scrapes her nails down his chest for the impertinence before shifting back down the bed for the bottle. 

It only takes a glare from her for Fandral to spread his thighs and shift them up, laying himself vulnerable and open the way she likes. He wasn’t like this the first few times, awkward and embarrassed about the whole process, but she thinks that he revels in it now. Sif bends to kiss the weeping head of his dick, swipe her tongue over the pre-come now dribbling freely, and then turns her head to bite the inside of Fandral’s thigh when he lets out a groan. He smells like soap and arousal and man, and she bites him again for the way the soft skin slides beneath her teeth, the way Fandral sobs without meaning to, fingers scrabbling in the sheets.

Sif sits back, slicks up her fingers, and strokes the first one into the crack of his arse. Fandral bucks his hips immediately, impatient and determined for instant gratification of course, but she ignores him, circling a fingertip around his hole, feeling it twitch. Fandral’s face is flushed, his lower lip caught between his teeth, and Sif continues to smudge wet lube between his cheeks, never touching where he wants, leaving him sticky and spread but unsatisfied. Fandral’s often so demanding it’s good to treat him like this from time to time, remind him that he’s not the only one who can control the situation in bed.

“ _Sif_ ,” Fandral wheedles, thighs falling further open, shining and bright between the legs from all the lube. “Sif, come on, _please_.”

Sif rolls her eyes before she finally pushes a finger into him, slow and steady. Fandral sucks in a breath and holds it; he knows that’s not the way to get his body to relax, but Sif’s willing to wait until he remembers that. She strokes the finger in and out, careful but unrelenting, while Fandral curls hands behind his knees to hold his thighs up further, offer more of himself to her. Sif obliges, slipping in a second finger, spreading them until Fandral’s hips buck a warning, a request to slow down that his mouth doesn’t make. She twists them deeper instead, stopping a little short of where she knows he wants her, catching the edge of a sensation that he can’t quite capture. Fandral’s making the noises he always makes when she fingers him; he doesn’t ever try for silence, and the urgent grunting moans he lets out whenever she presses further in are among her favourites of his rather large repertoire. All of Fandral’s neighbours, past and present, anyone who’s ever been to a party with him, or anyone who’s been to a restaurant with him that has reasonably clean bathrooms knows what Fandral sounds like aroused and coming; he’s almost always loud and unashamed of it, and Sif’s entertainment comes largely from seeing just how hoarse she can make him at the end of the night.

Three fingers, and Fandral is actively humping against her hand, fucking himself against her, the obscene squelch of lube accompanying his frustrated groans. With one hand twisting inside him, Sif wraps the other one around his cock, slow, dragging tugs that make him shut his eyes and hiss. Sif has had sex with an amount of people that she’s perfectly happy with but that her parents would probably frown about if they somehow knew, and she’s never been with anyone who so unashamedly and unrepentantly takes pleasure from the experience; the rest of the world ceases to exist for Fandral when he’s got something up his arse or around his cock, and it won’t return until he’s come enough to leave him exhausted and blissful. It’s admirable, enviable and frustrating, and Sif maybe gets a little too much enjoyment out of whipping her fingers out of him unexpectedly and smacking his thigh with slick fingers. 

“Up,” she orders, and Fandral blinks at her with sex-hazed eyes before he lets go of his legs, clumsily rolls over and presses himself up onto all fours. Sif slicks her cock, wipes her hand on the sheet, and then grabs his hips to angle them better, high as he can get them with his thighs spread and straining.

“I like you like this,” she remarks, leaving her hands where they are to enjoy the view for a little longer, “and before you get smart, no, normally I like you less.”

“I’m fucking _charming_ ,” Fandral informs her, breathless but irritated.

Sif doesn’t bother telling him that that’s the problem, that he’s much more fun when the charm has skidded off to be replaced with almost any other emotion, but then he’d probably _still_ get one of those smug smirks that she only likes if she’s about to sit on it.

“Yeah,” she says, “maybe try that less,” and shuts him up by pulling his hips back, enough to press the tip of her cock to one flushed arse cheek, a shameless tease that she doesn’t even try to deny herself.

Fandral shifts his straining shoulders, muscles sliding smooth beneath his skin, golden curls trapped to the nape of his neck with sweat. He’s desperate but he isn’t pushing her, isn’t demanding anything, and aside from the _excellent_ orgasms, that’s why Sif loves fucking him so much: it’s a side of Fandral the world doesn’t often get to see. That’s okay: Sif’s happy to keep it to herself, to pull out on dull nights with her hands between her legs or when he’s being just so _irritating_ but is somewhere too public for her to spank him to an apology he doesn’t mean.

That’s a twist of something that passes for sentimentality, and to get it to pass Sif cups a hand at the base of her strap-on to keep it steady, streaks the head through the sticky mess she’s made of Fandral’s arse crack, and presses at his hole until he gasps through his teeth and she slides inside. 

She stays still for a moment, while Fandral makes ragged uncoordinated sounds and his buttocks flex. Sif rests her free hand on his spine, a grounding touch, until he manages to hiss out: “more, more, _fuck_ , more.”

Years of practice have made Sif pretty good at reading the body language of her sexual partner, unable to tell quite what she’s doing to their insides; it’s still good to have a vocal confirmation, and she tries not to think too hard about what she probably did to the first poor boys who asked her to fuck them before she learned better.

Even without a real, sensitive cock, Sif still wants to slam all the way inside Fandral, have that shivering arse pressed to her stomach, his thighs smacking hers. It’s possibly the feeling of having Fandral vulnerable just for her, or possibly the fact that the faster she moves the faster her cunt’s going to get some actual friction, or possibly a belief that teasing’s for _before_ you’re both naked. Whatever the reason, it’s a struggle to move steady but slow, letting go of her cock to grip Fandral’s waist instead, pulling him back onto her while he breathes deeply and badly, _fuck_ dripping out of his mouth every few moments. Maybe when he’s in bed with other people he retains his dignity, but Sif has never wanted that. What she _wants_ is Fandral just like this, not quite in control and not trying to be either. 

When she bottoms out she can lean forward to press kisses to Fandral’s heaving shoulders, hair trickling out of her ponytail to tickle his skin. His hands are bunched in the sheets, knuckles straining white, and he spills her name when Sif shifts her hips a little, an experimental movement. She hums, licks a streak of sweat from his back, and straightens up to pull back, cock sliding easily from the overabundance of lube, the sound sleek and slick and wet and gorgeously obscene. Fandral’s head tips back, shuddering curls, and if Sif wasn’t keeping a firm, nails-deep hold on his hips she’d tangle her fingers in that hair, drag it a little for kicks. He likes it, though he pretends not to, like so many other things that are fun but probably don’t fit with the image of himself that he likes to project.

Sif stays still a moment with just the head of the strap-on left inside him, the rim of his hole stretched white and glittering around her, and then shoves back in, harder, accompanied by a smack of skin that makes Fandral groan. She hasn’t got the angle right yet, but that’s what the next few thrusts are for, to loosen Fandral up a little more and to help her find the spot he’s willing her to crash into. 

“Jesus, Sif.” Fandral’s voice is tangled, his body undulating underneath hers, pulling away and pushing back in equal measure, still just about caught halfway between discomfort and desire. Sif can change that, though, and she manages it after a couple more exploratory thrusts, knowing she’s found his prostate when Fandral’s entire body judders and something that’s like a scream falls through his gritted teeth. She slides in again, and doesn’t move.

“Full enough, darling?” she asks, sweet as she can manage, while Fandral squirms underneath her and whimpers, the muscles in his back jumping.

She gets a mangled handful of vowels in response, something that might be her name or a curse or _you’re such a bitch, move, oh my god_ ; Sif’s never bothered playing fair when it comes to Fandral, not when winning is so much more fun. She doesn’t move until Fandral starts moving, jerking his hips in her grasp, trying to fuck himself and generally doing a terrible job of it. Sif takes pity and pulls out, looks at his reddened hole twitching, beads of lube sliding out, before she fucks back in again, her own breathing a little uneven. She always finds this impossibly sexy, and the fact that it’s Fandral might actually it _worse_ , too many agendas happening at once for her to ever even try to count them.

“If you don’t make me come soon,” Fandral manages, thick and trembling, “I’m going to make sure Loki calls you next time he needs bailing out at three in the morning.”

“I’m still going to need a lift to the jail,” Sif replies, cramming her cock into his prostate again because that always makes him too incoherent to bitch, “and that’s still you. Also: shut the fuck up.”

She gives in to temptation and reaches to curl her fingers into his sweaty hair, pulling his head back until she can see the line of his throat, muscles working under the skin, a nick where he caught himself shaving a couple of days ago. His eyes are shut, eyelashes darker than expected against his flushed cheeks, mouth wet and swollen and bitten to almost painful brightness. 

Sif can’t come like this, clit grinding hopefully against the dildo, but _god_ , she wants to.

“If you want to come then you need to work with me,” Sif reminds him, watching his tongue flick out to lick his already shining lips, breath hissing between his teeth. She tugs his hair some more, for the way it makes his eyelashes flutter, and then releases him, smacking a hand against his arse for emphasis.

“You are the _worst_ ,” Fandral manages, but he wraps a hand around his cock before Sif can stop him, and when he starts moaning she doesn’t really want to anymore.

Sif can’t keep up the brutality of this pace for that long, fucking hard and deep, but with Fandral tugging his cock in a way that can only really be described as _frantic_ , a heady smack of skin, she doesn’t need to. They manage to sync up speeds, and this is why Sif keeps her bra on, even when it’s chafing her painfully hard nipples and she just wants to _touch herself_ , fuck; she’s seen enough porn to know that she’s supposed to wriggling around with her tits bouncing everywhere and her hair flying around while she fucks Fandral, but frankly, if she wants to do it right then she wants everything where she last put it, no distractions.

Her name is losing all meaning in Fandral’s mouth, sliding out _SifSifSifSif_ when he can catch his breath long enough to manage it, and her back is starting to hurt, her thighs to smart where they’re hitting Fandral’s. Sex should be hard and messy and painful and exhausting or it’s not worth it, but even so, this can’t last, has to break sooner or later.

It’s a relief when it does, Fandral’s arm collapsing beneath him, his face smashed into her sheets as he strokes himself through his orgasm; Sif slows down but keeps pushing into him until he hisses, too sensitive. She leaves him a crumpled, shivering heap while she extracts herself from the harness, the straps marked into her skin, criss-crossing her stomach and thighs. Her hands are trembling enough to make getting her bra off difficult, but she manages that too, and then she falls into the bed beside him, one hand cupping a neglected breast, the other crammed between her legs, where she’s wet all down her thighs, close but not close enough. 

Fandral looks _wrecked_ when he recovers enough to twist around and watch her, eyes finally managing to focus, hair a mess and sticking to his face.

“Aren’t I supposed to be helping with that?” he asks, chivalrous even when fucked incoherent, and Sif raises a challenging eyebrow in response; just because she can manage this herself perfectly well doesn’t mean she necessarily _wants_ to.

Fandral’s movements are clumsy, heavy, but he manages to crawl over her, dipping his head to catch a hard nipple in his mouth while his hand fumbles down her body until he finds her cunt. Sif tips her head back to rest against the headboard, breath buzzing in her lungs, while Fandral flicks his tongue over her nipple in the way he knows she likes, two fingers – thicker than hers, thank _fuck_ – sliding inside her and groping while his thumb presses against her clit. He’s got the rhythm wrong, but Sif cards sticky fingers into his hair and uses the other hand to clamp around his wrist.

“Left,” she says, and: “faster, you dick, faster,” and Fandral fights to obey, hand twisting between her thighs.

“ _My_ left,” Sif corrects, but she can feel it rising in her stomach, heart thudding loud enough for her to hear it pounding in her ears, hips jerking when Fandral finally manages to curl his fingers into her g-spot. They’re a tangle of limbs and skin and sweat and Sif is close enough that it almost hurts, teeth gritting, Fandral’s mouth too much and not enough and his fingers sliding obscenely through the wet mess of her cunt. _Come on_ , she thinks, _come on, come on, come on_.

Fandral shifts, his mouth covering her other nipple, and his fingers twist just right and that’s it, her entire cunt fucking _jumps_ , and Sif comes with her head banging off the headboard, heels skidding against the sheets, Fandral making soft noises into her breasts. He fingers her through it; not enough to make her come again, but enough to prolong her orgasm until everything feels shivery and frail and too-bright. 

Sif manages to slide down and actually lie down on the bed, foot catching the lube and sending it to the floor. She briefly hopes she put the cap back on but can’t summon up the energy to check, and the room feels like someone took out all the oxygen at some point, the air thick and smelling viciously of sex.

“God, I need a shower,” she murmurs.

“ _You_ do?” Fandral asks, shifting to lie down beside her. “It feels like you used about half the bottle back here, bloody hell.”

“You’re welcome,” Sif responds muzzily, “you can eat me out to thank me later.”

She doesn’t cuddle after sex because she doesn’t need it, doesn’t want it, and god knows if she let Fandral sleep over at any point the next thing she knew he’d be shagging her neighbours in her own bloody bed, but that doesn’t mean she’s entirely averse to the way he flops across her after sex, head pillowed on her breasts, hair damp and tickly and looking so terrible she’d take a photo for the others if it weren’t for the fact they’d want to know where she _got_ it, and she is never, ever having that conversation. Never.

“If you fall asleep I’m shaving off half your stupid goatee thing,” she warns, sliding her fingers into Fandral’s hair for the way he idly pushes his head into her hand, attention whore that he is.

“Just half?” he asks, voice a warm hum against her skin.

Sif is exhausted and relaxed for what feels like the first time in days, and she knows later that she’ll be cold and gross and making atrocious mojitos while she tries to wash herself and her sheets, but for now she curls her toes and yawns and murmurs: “if I only shave off half you’ll look _really_ stupid.”

“Touché,” Fandral allows, and Sif will need to kick him into her shower and then out, but she’s pretty sure she can allow him another five minutes. Somewhere along the very, very long line, he’s probably earned it.


End file.
